THE INVITATION: TO TOM HUGHES

Come away with me, Tom,

Term and talk are done;

My poor lads are reaping,

Busy every one.

Curates mind the parish,

Sweepers mind the court;

We'll away to Snowdon

For our ten days’ sport;

Fish the August evening

Till the eve is past,

Whoop like boys, at pounders

Fairly played and grassed.

When they cease to dimple,

Lunge, and swerve, and leap,

Then up over Siabod,

Choose our nest, and sleep.

Up a thousand feet, Tom,

Round the lion's head,

Find soft stones to leeward

And make up our bed.

Eat our bread and bacon,

Smoke the pipe of peace,

And, ere we be drowsy,

Give our boots a grease.

Homer's heroes did so,

Why not such as we?

What are sheets and servants?

Superfluity!

Pray for wives and children

Safe in slumber curled,

Then to chat till midnight

O'er this babbling world —

Of the workmen's college,

Of the price of grain,

Of the tree of knowledge,

Of the chance of rain;

If Sir A. goes Romeward,

If Miss B. sings true,

If the fleet comes homeward,

If the mare will do,—

Anything and everything —

Up there in the sky

Angels understand us,

And no‘ saints’ are by.

Down, and bathe at day-dawn,

Tramp from lake to lake,

Washing brain and heart clean

Every step we take.

Leave to Robert Browning

Beggars, fleas, and vines;

Leave to mournful Ruskin

Popish Apennines,

Dirty Stones of Venice

And his Gas-lamps Seven —

We've the stones of Snowdon

And the lamps of heaven.

Where's the mighty credit

In admiring Alps?

Any goose sees‘ glory’

In their‘ snowy scalps.’

Leave such signs and wonders

For the dullard brain,

As aesthetic brandy,

Opium and cayenne.

Give me Bramshill common

( St. John's harriers by ),

Or the vale of Windsor,

England's golden eye.

Show me life and progress,

Beauty, health, and man;

Houses fair, trim gardens,

Turn where'er I can.

Or, if bored with‘ High Art,’

And such popish stuff,

One's poor ear need airing,

Snowdon's high enough.

While we find God's signet

Fresh on English ground,

Why go gallivanting

With the nations round?

Though we try no ventures

Desperate or strange;

Feed on commonplaces

In a narrow range;

Never sought for Franklin

Round the frozen Capes;

Even, with Macdougall,

Bagged our brace of apes;

Never had our chance, Tom,

In that black Redan;

Ca n't avenge poor Brereton

Out in Sakarran;

Tho’ we earn our bread, Tom,

By the dirty pen,

What we can we will be,

Honest Englishmen.

Do the work that's nearest,

Though it's dull at whiles,

Helping, when we meet them,

Lame dogs over stiles;

See in every hedgerow

Marks of angels’ feet,

Epics in each pebble

Underneath our feet;

Once a year, like schoolboys,

Robin-Hooding go,

Leaving fops and fogies

A thousand feet below.